Neither of us moves toward the door.
That is the first thing. The door is right there. My wet dress is in the bathroom, my bag is on the counter, the rain is still going outside, and the door is right there, and neither of us moves toward it, and we both know exactly what that means.
Adrian refills my wine glass without asking.
I let him.
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We end up on the couch. Not the way that sounds. Just two people and a bottle of wine and the city spread out below the floor-to-ceiling windows like someone arranges it specifically for this evening, all wet light and moving traffic and the kind of beauty that makes you feel quiet inside.
Adrian sits at one end. I sit at the other. There is a respectable distance between us that neither of us attempts to close, because closing it means saying
